


All Promise Outruns Performance

by withlightning



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Biting, Breathplay, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild D/S elements, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Slight Comeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withlightning/pseuds/withlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is back. Arthur is (out of) in control. Gripping the sink with knuckles white, forehead painfully against the tap of the sink — Eames wants it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Promise Outruns Performance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trojie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/gifts).



> Basically Arthur and Eames are coming about 98% of this fic. This is a long-stretched fest of coming. Uh. It's true.
> 
> Written for Trojie's prompt; _If anyone has the time and inclination - can I please get Arthur/Eames where the Fischer job is the first time they've seen each other in years, and the hotel or whatever is just too far away. So. The warehouse has to have a bathroom, right? Whether or not they give a shit if Cobb or Ariadne can hear them is up to you :)_ , at Cherrybina's [kink fest](http://cherrybina.livejournal.com/211815.html?thread=14902887#t14902887).
> 
> Be sure to check out the whole [post](http://cherrybina.livejournal.com/211815.html), there is ~amazing porn and explored kinks in there.

"You left," Arthur growls into Eames' sweat-slick neck, biting down on the skin.

"I distinctively remember— Oh fuck," Eames pants and holds onto the sink harder, white-knuckled. "You, you were the one who—"

Arthur bites again, teeth sinking, marking. "Semantics," he says and sucks the spot where Eames' shoulder meets his neck.

The sound of slapping fills the room; Arthur's slim hips slapping against Eames' arse, thrusts unforgiving and unrelenting. Eames's damp hands are slipping, sliding on the porcelain and he scrabbles for a better grip. Arthur's palm replaces his mouth on Eames' neck, pushing, pushing Eames forward, bending him, _controlling_ him and Eames goes, forehead resting heavily on the tap. The metal digs into his skin uncomfortably, but he doesn't care— doesn't care at all because it's Arthur fucking him like it's their last time, like their time is running out.

"Fuck," Arthur says and presses Eames down harder with every thrust.

Eames licks his chapped lips, still stinging from Arthur's sudden attack from earlier, crowding Eames against the wall with ferocity, fire in his eyes. And all it took was Eames commenting to Arthur on the badly hidden bruise on his neck, yellowing on the sides, round-shaped like an open mouth; someone else's mouth than Eames'.

“Oh fuck,” Arthur says again and Eames swears he can feel Arthur’s cock in his throat, blocking his airways because he can’t breathe properly. He’s gulping air, trying to get some air into his burning lungs, and the world is blackening slowly, the rims of his vision dimming and this is it; this is why he’s had trouble with people, trouble with fucking people, _other_ people because there’s no one quite like Arthur. This is why he has spent sleepless nights tossing and turning and fucking his own hand until he’s raw and still not getting any gratification – because of Arthur.

Because Arthur fucks Eames like it’s the last thing he’s ever doing, with dedication, with abandon— and yet still in control of everything. Arthur fucks Eames like he’s the only one he wants to fuck, fucks Eames like Eames _matters_.

“Arthur—“ Eames slurs, tongue heavy in his mouth and vision sparkling in black and silver.

Arthur’s hand on his neck comes around and curls against the shape of his throat, thumb and forefinger squeezing the tendons running on both sides and Eames moans low. There is no one quite like Arthur.

Arthur leans on him, their bodies in contact from legs to Eames’ shoulder blades, where Arthur rests his own head, air puffing hotly against Eames’ spine. “God, Eames,” he says, voice wrecked and his other hand following Eames’ arm all the way to his hand, still gripping onto the sink for what it’s worth. Arthur lays his palm on top of Eames’. “Let go,” he half-whispers and Eames does, he lets go of the side of the sink and Arthur’s hand latches onto his, fingers curling with each other seamlessly. The other hand on Eames’ throat stays still.

Arthur snaps his hips few times more and then pulls back for a beat. There are lips on Eames’ back, kisses being laid along his spine, reverent and hungry.

“I’ve missed you.” Arthur does whisper this time, the words mouthed on his sweaty skin, but he hears them nonetheless. Eames would be lying if he’d say he hasn’t missed Arthur. So he says nothing; instead he squeezes Arthur’s fingers against his own tighter, as if saying, _I know_.

Arthur moans, breath hitching, and he rolls his hips slowly, rolls them gently enough to make Eames shudder. The pace Arthur sets is maddening: it’s full of friction, full of contact and sudden tenderness, and Eames feels like breaking apart – it’s never been this intimate, this _raw_ , and something tightens in Eames’ chest, heart thudding painfully enough for him to swallow a few times.

A slow burn starts to spread from Eames’ gut to the tips of his toes, to the tips of his fingers, burning brightly on his cheeks. Eames is feverish, drugged – he’s out of his bloody mind under Arthur, under Arthur’s circling hips and his possessive hold. There are bruises forming all over his skin, on his hips and neck and _forehead_ , and he feels so good, feels marvellous because it’s Arthur’s cock inside him, hot and hard and _his_.

Arthur pants above him, hot puffs of air getting shorter and shorter and his arm is trembling under the strain of going slow. The miniscule tremors make Eames hold on Arthur’s hand even harder.

“Don’t you do that ever again,” Arthur says, voice raw, fractionally tightening his steady grip around Eames’ throat, sparks of pleasure and pain blurring Eames’ already narrowed vision. “You can’t just go—you can’t just _leave_ —“

“I won’t,” Eames wheezes out. “I won’t – oh fuck – I won’t—“

Arthur lets out a distressed noise, kind of like a whine, but Arthur doesn’t _whine_ and Eames can’t think about it, can’t find any reason for the noise, can’t concentrate. The burning inside him is growing, growing fast and Arthur is still going slow, going so carefully slow and Eames wants to cry in frustration – he wants to push back, wants to turn around, wants more of Arthur’s cock, more of Arthur – he wants to suck Arthur, wants to ride him, wants to fuck him, wants to – oh god – wants everything, everything that is Arthur.

Arthur’s fingers are digging into the skin on his throat, pressing the tendons harder, and a bitter taste bursts in Eames’ mouth. He swallows painfully and chokes out, “Can you just—“

“No,” Arthur says and keeps on rolling his hips, slowly, oh so slowly.

The fingers disappear from Eames’ throat and a beat later find their way on his lips. Eames opens his mouth and moans, sucking on them instantly. Arthur curls his fingers against Eames’ cheek, prodding and wriggling, and Eames sucks harder, tongue pushing between knuckles. And finally, finally Arthur loses his rhythm, pistoning instead of rolling, hard thrusts that make the backsides of Eames’ thighs abrasive and tender, friction breaking the skin.

“Your mouth, your fucking mouth,” Arthur groans and pushes his fingers deeper. Eames sucks eagerly, eyes rolling in his head. “Your everything, _everything_ , fuck—“

And Eames hums under his breath, sucking and licking and Arthur tries to get closer, closer still, trousers bunched around ankles, belt clink-clanking on the floor.

Eames hums again, louder, and Arthur withdraws his fingers quickly, smearing a string of saliva on Eames’ cheek. Mouth empty, Eames whines high in his throat, trying to block the words of endearments, the words of truths coming up. He wants to tell Arthur how good he feels, how good Arthur makes him feel, how good his cock feels inside him. He wants to tell how much he missed Arthur’s irrational possessiveness, the same feeling he shares when it comes to Arthur, wants to tell Arthur he’s Eames’ and no one else’s, wants to tell Arthur he’s sorry, wants to tell Arthur he never intended to—

But then Arthur’s hand comes between them, squirms its way between their bodies and swipes behind Eames’ balls, sending sparks of electricity running through Eames’ veins. A second later Arthur touches the tightly stretched rim of Eames’ hole gripping his cock like a vice, wet fingertips gliding on the strip of skin. Arthur stops moving and Eames feels like screaming. The fingers run along the rim, slick with spit and Eames is shaking, he’s on fire, he’s most probably _dying_.

“Oh god,” Arthur manages with a strangled voice, tone low and rough, desperate. “Can I just—Eames, can I? I have to—I need to—I just—“

And Eames can’t say anything, can’t make his mouth work at all— can only feel his body on fire, can feel his strained, over-stimulated cock throbbing and begging to be touched; can feel his heartbeat in his arse, pulsing around Arthur’s cock, and he can’t say anything at all.

Arthur doesn’t wait; he lines up one finger and pushes in, wiggles it along his cock and Eames’ eyes fly open, because holy fuck, it’s a tight fit, it’s no fit at all and god, he loves the burn, loves the burn like he loves—like he loves everything Arthur does, like he loves every burn from Arthur, like he loves—

“Eames, Eames, _Eames_ ,” Arthur sobs over and over again with a hushed voice, quiet and only for Eames’ ears, and it’s a wonder Eames can hear him at all from all the rushing in his head. And then Arthur thrusts, fucking Eames with both his cock and finger, and it’s too much, it’s still not enough and Eames has to come, he has to come, he can’t take this anymore.

Arthur must feel the same, since he moans, “I—Eames, I’m—Oh, _oh fuck_ —“ and it’s sudden, the way Arthur comes, shaking and panting and thrusting hard once, twice and then rolling his hips in a badly-executed circle, body trembling so viciously he almost isn’t able to stay on his feet, even when he’s laying half on top of Eames. Arthur’s hand clenches in Eames’ painfully, the bones of their fingers grinding together, and then Arthur lets go, muscles of his arm spasming when he leans on Eames’ back. Panting, his cock still twitching inside Eames, Arthur's one lonely finger finds its way out of Eames as he withdraws as slowly as he can.

Eames whines and grips the sink with all he has, forehead numb, body tense and empty; and yet the need to come, it’s something he can’t, he can’t—he just needs to come, he needs to—

But then Arthur’s on his knees, turning Eames’ legs, straining his back uncomfortably. The hold Arthur has on his thighs is bruising, fingernails digging into the skin, and it feels amazing, feels incredible—and then Arthur’s mouth closes around Eames cock and he _sucks_.

It’s like a live wire has gotten loose inside Eames, the burning everywhere, everywhere— and then there are fingers in Eames’ arse, touching his sore hole and pushing in determinedly, pushing in deep and curling, curling just the way they need to curl, and Eames howls, he howls and Arthur sucks, sucks so hard, sucks with vigour and it’s too much, it’s too much, it hurts, hurts in the best ways, and it’s Arthur’s come slicking his fingers inside Eames and oh god, oh god—oh god—

Eames lets go.

The world blacks out, the roaring inside his head drowning every other sound, and there’s only Arthur’s hot mouth on him, swallowing, the back of Arthur’s throat working to swallow and the fingers gliding inside him; rubbing and rubbing and fucking and there’s his heart trying to beat its way out of Eames’ ribcage and his brains trying to melt, Arthur sucking him dry, sucking him with fervour and Eames hears nothing, sees nothing; feels everything – feels _Arthur_.

He doesn’t pass out but it’s a close thing, he can tell, since he feels ill, feels exhausted and delirious and it takes a good while for him to see colours again, to hear his own harsh pants. Arthur is resting his forehead against Eames’ hip, hands still holding onto Eames' thighs tightly. Eames lifts his head and the world lurches to the left and comes back, and oh fuck, his head hurts where the tap was pressing against his skull.

“I meant it,” Arthur says quietly, mumbles his words against Eames’ leg, lips brushing the fine hair on his thigh. “Even if I’m not all that good with— I just, I mean it.”

“I know,” Eames rasps, throat sore and painfully dry. “And I mean it, too.”

Arthur lifts his head, dark hair matted with sweat and curling around the edges, and his dark eyes are warm, warm, warm. Eames smiles and catches the reflecting twitch on the corners of Arthur’s lips.

They both mean it.

 

-Fin


End file.
